


A Cracked Mirror

by Caiti (Caitriona_3)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode: s02e10 Mirror Mirror, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Job Related Trauma, Mind Meld, Mind Rape, Trope Bingo Round 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitriona_3/pseuds/Caiti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A forced mind-meld leaves it's marks.  McCoy needs to start the healing process and only one person can help him...if the good doctor will let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cracked Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Set during "Mirror, Mirror" - after the away team's return to the proper Enterprise, but before the final scene  
> Fill for LJ's [Hurt/Comfort Bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) square - "Job Related Trauma"  
> Fill for DW's [Trope Bingo](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) square - "Telepathy/Mind Meld"  
> Inspired by some of [KCSribblers](http://kcscribbler.livejournal.com/) writing
> 
> This is my first ever Star Trek fiction. I hope I do it some justice.

Doctor Leonard McCoy rubbed his eyes in a somewhat vain attempt to clear his vision. The most recent flurry of planetside emergencies and surprise space battles prevent any of the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise from getting an adequate amount of sleep. Most ships considered such events to be unusual flare-ups in otherwise routine tours of duty. Not the Enterprise. No, for the Enterprise such events tended to be the norm rather than the exception. Despite this – or maybe because of it – the Enterprise also remained the one ship everyone wanted as their chosen assignment.

Why anybody would sign up for this life continued to mystify him – even as he ignored his own dogged efforts at avoiding any attempt by Starfleet Command to promote him.

A message waited on his computer for his acknowledgement – a message he wished he could change though he knew the desperate wish to be as vain an attempt as the clearing of his vision. The crew’s yearly physicals had been completed a month ago and the message reminded him he needed to complete and update all psychological profiles. Starfleet knew the potential for problems on such long term voyages as their five-year mission, and it required these profiles in addition to the other health tests in an attempt to catch issues before they became problems. McCoy had always approved of the policy…at least he had _before_.

His fingers trembled before he reached out with the utmost reluctance to acknowledge the reminder.

Before…

“Damn it.” The soft Southern accent seemed to sigh through the room as he brought a hand up to rub his forehead.

“Doctor?”

McCoy jerked back in his chair, eyes flaring wide as they darted to his office door. Commander Spock, second in command of the ship, stood in the entrance, eyes focused on him. The doctor gave himself a shake before narrowing his eyes in a glare. “What the hell are you trying to do, Spock? Put me into cardiac arrest?”

“I assure you, Doctor, I intended no such reaction by the mere utterance of your title,” Spock replied, tilting his head, his gaze never wavering. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” McCoy muttered. He pushed back from his desk and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Well, we both know you’re not here for the hell of it, so what do you want?”

“A moment of your time.” With that, Spock entered the office and secured the door behind him. 

Unease flickered in McCoy’s mind, but he suppressed it as he watched his fellow officer sit in one of the extra chairs. He cleared his throat. “Something wrong, Spock?” he asked, forcing his voice into a fair example of his usual caustic tone. “Not like you to come here for information – not unless Jim’s in one of those beds out there.” And the doctor would damn well know if that were the case.

“The captain appears quite busy at the moment in Engineering discussing an upcoming shore leave with Mr. Scott,” Spock informed him. 

“Ah, hell,” McCoy muttered, his mind going over a quick catalogue of the various supplies he has on hand versus what he might need after a Kirk-Scott combined shore leave.

“Regardless,” Spock continued, “I seek…clarification on our recent…diplomatic mission.”

Now McCoy could not quite repress his emotions, and the light flick of Spock’s eyebrow told him the First Officer had caught the wince he tried to hide. A knot built inside McCoy’s chest and he forced himself to sit up straight – both to try and ease the constriction as well as give him a better chance of blustering his way through this. “I turned in my report,” he grumbled. “Don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“I have read your report,” Spock nodded. “As I have read the reports of Captain Kirk, Mr. Scott, and Lieutenant Uhura.” Not a muscle moved – the Vulcan could have been carved from stone save for the minute expressions which crossed his face and the determination McCoy could see building in his gaze. “All of them are concise and complete if one allows for the fallacies of human memory.”

“Then what the hell are you bothering me for?” McCoy demanded and he began to shuffle some of the record chips on his desk.

“Doctor,” Spock’s posture did not change, but his voice softened. “None of the reports detail any incident or occurrence to explain your reaction in the transporter room.”

McCoy stilled. 

Spock waited.

The transporter room… McCoy knew with a terrifying exactness which reaction Spock meant. He could still see it. The wavering of the transporter still gave him jitters and the last few days had done nothing to dispel them. At least this time they arrived at the right place – no gold sashes, no daggers, and no bearded Vulcans. He could feel the others breathe with relief as they stepped off the transporter platform to greet Spock, but McCoy remembered having to force the first few breaths. He managed to hold steady in his place behind the captain until entire party moved for the corridor. Spock turned to follow, taking up his usual place at Jim’s right shoulder.

And McCoy flinched.

He did his best to hide it, cover it with a light shift of position, willing to let them think he needed rest or whatever other explanation they came up with, but he knew the truth. He flinched away from Spock, from any proximity with the First Officer. The others missed it, not seeing the small reaction. 

Except, apparently, for Spock.

Now Spock leaned forward and McCoy felt himself pull back. One of Spock’s eyebrow lifted in a clear query and McCoy looked away.

“Something happened,” Spock broke the silence. “Something you have not included in your report.” He stopped, letting silence build, but McCoy kept his gaze locked on the blank screen in front of him. “Doctor-?”

“Damn it, Spock!” McCoy interrupted, temper lashing out. “Let it alone.”

“No.”

The one word caused McCoy to see red. “Now see here-!” he began, fury building up in his voice even as he felt the blood flushing into his face.

“I will not ‘let it alone’,” Spock continued in the same steady voice, speaking over the doctor’s protestations. “You are suffering. I cannot ‘let it alone’.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not.” 

McCoy glared at the Vulcan sitting across from him, but Spock’s expression never changed. He turned his eyes down towards McCoy’s hands. Something shifted in Spock’s face, something McCoy might have called concern if he thought the Vulcan would let him get away with it.

“Look at your hands, Doctor,” Spock instructed him, “and tell me you are ‘fine’.”

“I’m-,” McCoy started only to stutter to a stop as he noticed the trickle of blood from where he had grasped the record chips so tightly they cut into his skin. He stared at the streaks of red for a long moment of silence before he dropped the chips and slumped back in his chair. “I want to forget it,” he muttered. “It wasn’t here – it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Spock rebutted. “It matters because regardless of where it happened, it happened to you.” The other waited until McCoy glanced up and met his gaze. “It matters,” he repeated, the concern clearer now, more obvious.

That concern – that look McCoy had seen directed at their captain so many times – that more than anything else broke through the denial and the shields he had been trying so hard to put in place. He could feel the grimace but could not seem to prevent it from surfacing. 

“Will you tell me?” Spock asked.

“What’s there to tell?” McCoy sighed.

Spock’s fingers twitched and his lips pursed. “Given your reaction to my presence in the transporter room and the unease with which you viewed my arrival here, it is clear my counterpart in the parallel universe did something to cause this…disquiet in you, Doctor.”

“Other than the icepick in my brain?” McCoy murmured, rubbing his forehead once more.

Spock stiffened and McCoy eyed him. The Vulcan’s face went blank, but the concern in his eyes deepened even as something else seemed to kindle behind it. 

“Spock?”

“Doctor,” Spock began in a quiet, controlled voice. “Please…” His voice trailed off and he seemed to need a breath before he continued. “Will you please tell me what happened?”

“You read the reports,” McCoy began, holding his hand up when Spock began to interrupt. “Let me tell it.” His fingers began to tap on the top of his desk. “He came to Sickbay with Jim and there was a fight. I stayed behind to tend to him because I couldn’t just leave him there to die.”

“Your compassion, Doctor, though laudable, could have gotten you killed,” Spock pointed out. “It would have been a better use of logic to leave him and go with the others to the transporter room.”

“He was injured,” McCoy huffed. “I couldn’t just leave!”

Spock closed his eyes as he breathed out through his nose in what McCoy would swear was the Vulcan equivalent of a sigh. “Of course you could not,” the Vulcan agreed. McCoy eyed him, wondering if he imagined the tone of amused exasperation, but he did not have the chance to speak as Spock continued. “I take it something happened between the time our fellow officers Sickbay and the time you met them in the transporter room?”

“You could say that,” McCoy agreed. His breathing sped up as did his heart rate. Spock half rose from his chair, but McCoy waved him back down. The doctor closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, forcing himself to slow down and deepen each breath. He counted in the silence of his mind – inhale through the nose, pause, exhale through the mouth, pause, and repeat the full cycle. It took a couple of minutes but he could feel his heart rate slowing as his breathing deepened and the incipient panic attack receded. “You could say that,” he repeated. He opened his eyes and turned his gaze back to Spock. “He needed to know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Why Jim spared him,” McCoy replied, his voice growing tired. “Why Jim didn’t kill him.”

Spock nodded as if McCoy had answered the most important question. “He forced a mind-meld on you.” McCoy jerked in his seat, surprise racing through him, and saw the Vulcan’s lips grow thin. Spock’s shoulders twitched, though McCoy doubted anyone less familiar with him than the Enterprise’s bridge crew would notice. “He hurt you.”

McCoy glanced away. “It wasn’t fun,” he replied. “I’ll give it that.”

“He hurt you,” Spock repeated, voice growing even softer.

“Yes, Spock!” McCoy erupted, swinging back to give him a baleful gaze. “It hurt! What do you want from me?”

“Nothing, Doctor.”

“Then why the hell-?”

Spock leaned forward. “I would like…” He paused as a thoughtful expression crossed his face. “With your permission,” he corrected himself, “I would like to…help you.”

“How do you propose to do that?” McCoy demanded. The tension in the room grew thick. Between his own fear – which he could readily admit to – and Spock’s tiptoeing around the situation – which he knew the Vulcan would deny – the doctor felt as though his sharpest scalpel would be unable to cut through the tension between them.

“Doctor…” Spock paused once more. McCoy might have found it amusing, watching him try to pick his way through this conversation if it were about any other topic – or with anyone else. Then Spock tried again. “Leonard.” Now McCoy’s jaw dropped, shock reverberating through him as Spock used his first name. “The mind-meld should never be forced on anyone and, while it might be discomforting, it should never be painful to such a degree. What happened to you…it is a travesty.” Here Spock’s voice grew tight. “A perversion of everything such a full mind-meld should be.”

“Pretty sure that’s the first time you’ve ever used my name,” McCoy noted in passing, not focusing on the full import behind Spock’s statement yet. “Did it hurt?”

“Leonard.”

Now McCoy examined the other officer. He had worked with Spock long enough by now to know some of the man’s tells. Not that he would play poker with the stoic Science officer. He gave himself a mental shake – he needed to focus. Small lines around the corners of Spock’s eyes, a lower than normal brow, and a tight mouth; all of these tiny signs pointed to some odd mix of Spock’s concern and an odd Vulcan sense of shame. That little hint relaxed McCoy’s shoulders. “It wasn’t you.”

His words fell between them, a small drop of oil on troubled waters perhaps, but something in the room eased. 

“No,” Spock agreed, “and yet-.”

“It wasn’t you,” McCoy repeated, the sureness of his words settling inside him, returning to him a foundation which had been shaken. Shaken, but not broken, not shattered. “But-.” Here he paused.

“Doctor?” Spock prompted.

“I…I may need-.” He broke off and scratched the back of his head before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “I may need your help,” he admitted in a low voice.

“Of course,” Spock nodded, straightening once more. McCoy watched, glad to see some of the tension leak out of the Vulcan’s shoulders. The lines in his face smoothed out. “I would be…honored.” Spock’s own admission came in a calm, thoughtful manner. He rose to his feet. “Perhaps we might discuss this later,” he offered. “When we are both released from our duties?”

“Good idea,” McCoy nodded. He held up a hand. “In private? Preferably?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Warmth still lingered somewhere in that Vulcan gaze. “It is unlikely we shall be interrupted in my quarters.”

McCoy nodded again. He figured it would take every ounce of stubborn pride in him to go through with it, but it felt better, making the plan, planning the attempt. It did not hurt to know that Spock would track him down if he did not show up. He took a deep breath and pushed it behind him for now. Right now he needed to get back to being the grumpy Chief Medical Officer everyone expected. Anything else would have to wait. He lifted a hand and waved it at Spock, shooing him away like one might an annoying second cousin. “Now get out of my Sickbay before I admit you,” McCoy told him with a scowl – a scowl they both knew hid much deeper emotions. 

“On what grounds, Doctor?” Spock inquired, glancing back from the doorway. His own serene mask fit back into place, though McCoy could see the affection still resting in the back of that dark gaze.

“On the grounds that something must be wrong with all this emoting you’re doing,” the doctor shot back.

Spock lifted an eyebrow. “I have no idea to what you might be referring, Doctor.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” McCoy shook his head, helpless to repress the grin that followed. “Get out of here. I’ll see you on the bridge.”

Spock inclined his head as the corners of his lips pulled upwards for a brief moment in a shadow of a smile. He walked out of the office as McCoy turned back to his computer. The doctor felt lighter, free of the weight which had been dragging at him since their return from that other Enterprise. “Computer.”

“Acknowledged,” came the mechanical reply.

“Prepare crew rotation schedule for psychological profiles,” McCoy instructed. “Scheduling to be done from the top down – Captain James T. Kirk and Commander Spock to be first on the list.”

“Processing.”

McCoy leaned back and closed his eyes. A smirk settled on his lips. “Attach the following message to Commander Spock’s appointment notification: ‘Your turn, you pointy-eared hobgoblin. And Spock – thanks.’ Message ends.”

“Processing.” He waited a moment. “Message delivered.”

Less than five minutes later, as McCoy sent out more individual messages to the senior crew about their appointments, a light flashed on his computer indicating a message. He opened it, a smile blossoming as he read it. 

_‘Doctor – a simple notification of the appointment would have sufficed. It is illogical to waste energy and time on composing such an illogical turn of phrase as though such psychological profiling required the taking of ‘turns’. And you are quite welcome.”_


End file.
